


Temnota

by APortableBanquet (peregrinefalcon)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Badass, Danger, Gen, Zombie Hunters, oh how am I going to be an optimist about this, the American government is extremely unhelpful, there is a good amount of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrinefalcon/pseuds/APortableBanquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a zombie epidemic spreads from Russia to the rest of the world, an eclectic group of survivors find each other on the streets of San Francisco and bond together as a team.<br/>They're not going down without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> темнота (temnotá)  
> Russian. noun, feminine inanimate.  
> 1\. dark, darkness (a complete or (more often) partial absence of light)  
> 2\. ignorance, backwardness  
> 3\. obscurity

 “Run, Jim,” he breathed, body bloodied and torn, “They’re coming.” He turned towards the blue-eyed boy who knelt beside him. The terrified boy looked back at him, feet cemented on the ground. “Uncle Pike, I can’t leave you alone. They’ll get you and turn you into one of them.” The boy began to hoist his uncle’s body onto his shoulders, inching towards a possible escape.

 

“Put me down, Jim.”

 

“No.”

 

The stench of decay was getting closer. Dull, dragging footsteps thumped on the wooden floor. Jim gritted his teeth in disgust as he tried to find an exit. _Zombies_. Their limping footfalls were punctuated with the slow dripping of Pike’s blood. Jim’s eyes scanned the shabby room, looking for somewhere they could wriggle out of. As he shifted his feet further away from the rickety door that would soon be smashed in by innumerable senseless bodies. A ray of light struck his face, and he looked up to the source – a skylight in the roof. _I’m tall enough_ , Jim thought to himself, _I’d be able to knock out the glass and drag Uncle Pike through it_. He picked up a stray stick from the floor and started smashing the glass.

 

There was a sudden, loud _thud_ and the door burst open. Slobbering and reeling, the zombies clambered clumsily into the room. Ever more frantic, Jim tried to knock out the remaining glass in large circular strokes. Pike took out the prized Heckler and Koch USP-40 pistol and attempted to stall the zombies.

 

 _Almost_ , Jim screamed internally as he destroyed the last of the glass. _We’ll get out, we’ll survive-_ he suddenly felt Pike’s body slide away from his shoulder, and a loud _thump_ when it hit the creaking floorboards. Pike had dropped his pistol with a _clack_ , as the zombies took his left foot and started dragging him towards them. Pike’s blood was painting the floor in smudgy, broad brushstrokes.

 

“Shoot me, Jim.”

 

“Uncle-"

 

“Now’s not the time to bargain! Take your father’s gun and shoot me before I can turn into one of them! _NOW!_ ”

 

Jim picked up the pistol on the floor. The gun was still warm from Pike’s hand. Trembling, Jim pointed the gun towards Pike, his blue eyes rippling beneath the surface of his corneas.

 

Pike gave Jim one last stern look. “Jim, do it.” Jim aimed the gun at Pike’s forehead, slid the slider, and tightened his fingers around the trigger.

 

As he climbed through the skylight while the zombies towed Pike’s body away, Jim knew that he was never going to forget that nerve-shattering bang and the blood and brains that sprayed the walls of that building.

 

The pistol suddenly felt very heavy in his pocket.

 

\----

 

San Francisco was in utter desolation. Rats scurried in the abandoned streets, the sewers ran rank with festering blood, and the dust and ash blinded whomever was stupid enough to venture outside. The city was almost empty; many succumbed in the early days of the zombie apocalypse, and those left alive now hid in the tall steel and glass buildings or in underground shelters. The desperate committed suicide to avoid the zombies and the claustrophobic solitude; the hopeful took home their entire local Costco and pray that it’ll last until the end.

 

Doctor McCoy was none of the above. He was not desperate, not hopeful, and not dead. In fact, he was pissed.

 

His wife had kicked him out of the neighborhood shelter because she “caught him with another woman.” _Jeez_ , McCoy thought to himself, _I’m a doctor, dammit, and she had a contagious case of pneumonia. Everyone else could’ve died if it wasn’t for me._ McCoy clutched his makeshift first aid kit in frustration. She shoved him out of the shelter and bolted the door behind him. McCoy tried to make the best of the situation, which wasn’t easy. _At least I have my first aid kit and my Winchester rifle._ He stroked his rifle lovingly as he picked his way through the rubble. _Now while I’m still here, I’m going to re-kill a few of those mindless motherfuckers-_  

 

_Thwack._

 

McCoy swiveled around swiftly. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and looked stared at the sound of the sound. His eyes scanned the barren landscape and found nothing. He lowered his rifle slightly. _If that was a zombie, I should have heard it ages ago. They’re too stupid to be this stealthy. Maybe it’s just the wind knocking over some rubble._

 

The wind was as still as cement. _Fuck_ , McCoy thought to himself.

 

“Show yourself, you little fucker. Or I’ll shoot you.”

 

“You can’t even see me.” A slim young man stood out of the rubble, rubbing his elbow as he squinted at McCoy with his insanely blue eyes. His dirty blonde hair was caked with ash and his jacket was stained with black blood. A black pistol rested in his worn leather holster.

 

 _What an idiot_. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

 

“Hey, I’m not a kid! I’m 26 years old. And the name’s James Tiberius Kirk. But you can call me Jim.” He winked at McCoy.

 

“Whatever, kid. What are you doing out here? It’s dangerous ground you know.”

 

“It’s _Jim_ ,” he rolled his eyes at McCoy, “I hunt these zombie bitches. Someone’s gotta do it. That’s why I’m out here.” He tilted his head at McCoy and scratched his straw-colored head. “The question is, who are you and what the hell are _you_ doing here?”

 

“It’s McCoy, Leonard McCoy. I’m a doctor. Wife kicked me out of the neighborhood shelter after she thought I hooked up with one of my patients. Now all I’m left with is my bones.”

 

“Did you hook up with your patient, though?” Jim looked at McCoy with honest curiosity. _His blue eyes look really stupid_ , McCoy thought to himself.

 

“No, of course not, you dimwit.” He rolled his eyes at Jim.

 

Jim flashed a grin at McCoy. “Say, why don’t we fight these zombies together? It’s horribly lonely being a homeless vagabond alone. Two’s always better than one, eh, Bones?"

 

“It’s _McCoy_. I guess if I don’t say yes, you’ll keep on following me anyways.” He growled at Jim as he began to climb over the rubble.

 

“That’s great! We’re partners now!” Jim laughed this laugh that McCoy could only label as ‘annoying.’ _Why am I always stuck with idiots?_ McCoy wondered half-bitterly at fate.

 

The sound of dragging footsteps neared Jim and McCoy. McCoy raised his rifle and Jim drew out his Heckler and Koch pistol. The hideous stench of decaying flesh began to envelope them.

 

Jim flashed an eager smile at McCoy. “Buckle up, buddy!”


	2. Chapter 2

Moscow was the first city hit. The Whitestone One, The Third Rome, The First Throne. It was such a pristine early winter’s day, and the first flakes of snow drifted onto the sloping bochka roofs. As the city slept on in the early morning, a laboratory was finally making progress in an extensive stem cell research project.

Men and women in lab coats as white and cold as the snow outside scurried from one end of the barren lab to the other. Their movements surrounded a human corpse lying on a stainless steel dissection table. Wires and tubes were attached to its waxy skin, and a petri dish lay beside it on the table. The people were talking to each other in hushed tones of Russian.

“Ivchenko, could you pass me the stem cells?”

“Here you go, Patrushev.” Ivchenko took the petri dish from the table and handed it to Patrushev, who stood holding a pipette. He was next to a woman who was cutting open the cranium of the cadaver. The woman lifted the piece of bone out of the way and exposed a grey mass behind the _dura mater_ membrane.

Patrushev turned towards the woman. “Are you ready, Amineva?” Amineva offered him a curt nod. Patrushev extracted a few rotund stem cells with his pipette and inserted them into the grey brain matter. Amineva then closed the skull and stapled it shut.

“Berezhnov, do you have the stimulant ready?” Ivchenko turned towards a man holding a syringe, his voice slightly quavering with excitement. Berezhnov inserted the needle into a vein in the corpse. “Neurotoxins ready on order, sir.”

“Do it.”

The toxins passed through the thin needle into the body, and the corpse began to jerk and spasm. “This is perfectly normal,” Patruschev assured the rest of the lab workers, “it’s just waking up his muscles.”

The corpse sustained a few more moments of muscle spasms, and it lay still. The lab team gave each other a few uncertain looks. Then, it sat up. Grinning in awe, the lab team began to walk closer to the revived body. The living cadaver opened its mouth and made a few gurgling noises, then stretched out its arm and grabbed Berezhnov, the scientist closest to him. He pulled Berezhnov close, biting him on the neck. “What the Hell-“ Ivchenko yelled, terrified. He tried to back away, but his feet were glued to the linoleum in fear.

Berezhnov was quivering in the zombie’s arms. As his arms jerked, Amineva observed, horrified: “The neurotoxins are spreading into his body!” The now infected Berezhnov broke free from the zombie, and slobbering, grabbed a scalpel from the stainless steel dissection table and lunged at Amineva. He sawed through her throat; her blood drew bold red parabolas on the white walls. Berezhnov hurled himself at Patruschev and bit him. And together, the two of them turned towards Ivchenko.

Later that day, the newly born zombies, Berezhnov, Patruschev, and Ivchenko walked out of the laboratory and into the awakening Moscow.

\----  
  
It’s been many winters since the infected scientists unleashed a new terror upon Russia and her surrounding countries. Each winter was worse than the other. This one was the worst.

Chekov stood shivering in the air force base, the cold piercing through even the thick, dark blue air force uniforms. For all his life, he could only remember fighting off the zombies. His parents locked the family into an underground shelter stocked with cans of pickles and preserves. At the age of ten he could work any weapon he could get his hands on. And now at seventeen years old, he’s flying airplanes to shoot down those monsters.

Russia had been too confident in her own powers to contain the virus. It spread far more quickly than expected, and the military was becoming more strained. They never asked any other country for help. Just bit their lips and kept on firing. It didn’t work. They just kept coming. “Hey, Pasha, how’s it going?” Ibragimov strolled towards Chekov. Mikhail Dmitrievich Ibragimov was a hopeful nineteen year old who’s made a habit of wandering around the base with a cold cigarette in his mouth. He offered Chekov his cigarette packet. “Want one, Pavel?” “I’ll pass, thanks.” Ibragimov breathed into the morning air. “It just never gets easier, does it?” “No.” Chekov rubbed his slowly freezing shoulders. Ibragimov turned towards Chekov, and suddenly in a serious voice, asked: “How many of us are left?” “A hundred in the air base, I don’t know how much in the rest of the military.” “Moscow doesn’t stand a chance.” “I don’t know,” he paused for a moment, “Can I have that cigarette now?”

Chekov sucked in the warm smoke from the cigarette. He hated the taste, but the warmth offered some comfort from the bitter winter cold. “You know, Misha, even if Moscow doesn’t stand a chance, I think we can still save her.” Ibragimov scoffed at him. “And how will you go about doing that?” Chekov let the smoke wander through his lips. “We’re smarter than they are. They’re practically walking pieces of rotting meat. We can corner them somewhere and just destroy them all.” Ibragimov laughed half-bitterly, half-pityingly. “Pasha, you’re too naïve. There’s no way that would work. There’s _no way_ the government will dispatch a _single_ battalion to do this kind of job anyways. _We’re all going to die_. They’re just going to watch Moscow fall; they’re going to watch Rome die a third time.” Chekov just looked at him in some resigned silence. Ibragimov turned towards him, defeat written across his face. “I’m sorry, Pasha. You’re just a kid. And this is what the world does to you.”

“It’s okay, Misha.” Chekov puffed on the cigarette understandingly. Ibragimov laid a hand on Chekov’s shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. “Let’s just try to stay alive.” Chekov looked away, his grey eyes staring at the snow-covered bochkas of St. Basil's Cathedral. "God have mercy on all of us." He whispered quietly to himself.

\----  
  
Most of the men had left the airbase already.  There was congregation of zombies found in St. Petersburg, and the air base there requested aid. Chekov was still behind doing his last checks and closing the doors of the base. Fuel, check. Wheels, check. Engines, check. Chekov loaded his AK-47, Irina, onto the small plane, and he opened the radio transmission to the other planes.  _Buzz_. Screams could be heard on the other side of the radio. The sound of tearing flesh. Planes crashing. Chekov squirmed bewilderedly in his seat. _They were being slaughtered_. _This is impossible. How could the zombies do this?? They’re not strong enough to shoot down planes! How-_ Chekov remembered. It was Vasilyev. He went outside of the base to get some gas from the gas station. The idiot went unarmed. He returned looking a bit weird, but Ibragimov let him on the plane anyways. _He sabotaged the plane and used it to take down the others._

Chekov jerked the seatbelt over his shoulder and buckled it at his hip. He turned on the ignition. “Request to leave hangar.” He opened the voice-operated authorization system. The machine responded to him: “Please enter authorization code.” “Nine five wicktor wicktor two.” The young Russian struggled with the English code.

“Authorization denied. Please try again.” _Dammit, this is Russia, why must we use English??_ Chekov frowned and pursed his lips to try again. “Nine five _victor victor_ two.” “Authorization granted.” The hangar doors swung open, and Chekov revved up his engine. Almost frantically, he glided onto the runway and set off, his mind unsure what to think.  
  
\----  
  
At the first glance, Moscow did not look any different than she usually did. Her gently curving buildings were still peaceful and upright; the Kremlin, austere as ever, remained an untouched; the city was a silent as it ever was since the apocalypse. A Sleeping Beauty of a city.

Chekov hovered closer to the city. The destruction was much more devastating up close. Chunks of buildings had been torn out by the plane crashes, and the streets were littered with bloodstained bricks. Scrap metal and body parts littered the streets.

Littered with scrap metal and bodies, the Red Square glowed crimson. Having put up a final show, the Bolshoi Theatre dropped its curtains; but its encore garnered dripping applause that embraced its white columns. St. Basil’s Cathedral stood alone, a reminder of God in the middle of a godforsaken war.The smell of smoke and death was overpowering.

_Oh my God_. Chekov thought to himself as he continued to roam his city. He didn’t know what to say. The First Throne was toppled. By her own people. Beings that science has created against humanity. He felt like crying, but his grey eyes were as dry as the ash that blew around the city after the destruction.

He swerved towards a plane lying in front of the steps of the Kremlin. A bloodied arm hung out of the open door. Beside it on the street fell a pack of cigarettes. _Ibragimov_. Chekov bit his lip and guided his plane upward. _I have to get out. There is nothing left in Moscow anymore. Europe and Asia will soon be taken; they are connected to Russia by land. The next largest power after Russia I could go to – that would be America._

Chekov set a course in the computer towards California. _There’s a large air base there. It’s close to the sea there; I’ll be safe from the zombies for a while. I hope they’ll believe my story._

As he left Moscow, he took one last look at the city. His home. His battlefield. His heart. She looked as peaceful as ever, slumbering under the snow despite of the violence and carnage. _Beautiful_. A rose that has begun to wilt in a field of blooming death. _Goodbye._

The tears he could not find earlier rolled down his cheeks now.

_Goodbye_.

He continued towards America.

\----  
  
An urban coast in along the primitive Pacific Ocean. California offered a yearlong spring enthusiasm was a stark opposite of Russia’s cold winter beauty. Suddenly struck with the foreign heat, Chekov felt out of his element and looked at the American landscape in uncertainty and discomfort.

Scanning the coastline, he soon spotted the curving modern complex of the Los Angeles Air Force Base. Expertly, he lowered his plane and eased her onto the runway smoothly and parked. A squad of buff Americans in well-tailored uniforms trotted up to receive him. Chekov swung out of the cockpit and regarded the tall foreigners. One of the officers saluted him: “Welcome to the United States Los Angeles Air Force Base, officer. May I ask of your rank and station? We’d also like to see your passport.”

“Second Lieutenant Pavel Andreievich Chekov of ze Fourth Air-space Defense Brigade in Moscow, sir. Here eez my passport.” Chekov said as he dug out a red Russian passport and handed it to the American man. He smiled mockingly at the faint sting that the passport awakened in him.  _Citizen of a dead nation … huh_. The American took the passport and flipped through it. He returned the passport to Chekov, who held it in his hands and looked at it for a moment before putting it back into his uniform pocket.

“It’s rare to see someone flying solo like you are, sir,” the other American turned towards Chekov, “We haven’t heard much from Russia, let alone Moscow, in the recent years.” Chekov nodded and ran a tired hand through his brown hair. “We’ve been having problems. Eet’s been bad. May I request to speak wiff your commanding officer, sirs?” The first America turned towards the air base’s entrance. “Of course, follow me.”

Chekov followed the Americans, filled with dread of the information he had to tell the Americans, and fearful of the consequences if they did not believe him.

\----  
  
The visitor’s lounge was spacious and simply furnished. It let off this cool, professional atmosphere that felt unwelcoming. It had no windows, and all the furniture gathered around a simple coffee table. Chekov took a seat in a slightly overstuffed armchair, and accepted a glass of water that was offered to him. As he sat sipping the water, the doors swung open and an elderly man walked in. Peering over his glass, Chekov’s grey eyes followed the man as he sat down across him.

“So, you’re from the Operational Strategic Command for Air-Space Defense in Moscow, right?” The man smiled amiably at Chekov. Chekov set the glass down and attempted to smile back. He was too tired and too emotionally taxed to produce one. “Yessir.” “I’m Admiral Marcus. Care to tell me why you’re here?” Chekov tried his best to straighten himself up.

He looked straight into Admiral Marcus’ eyes, his own betraying defeat and loss.“Zere’s been a zombie attack, sir.”

The man shifted in his seat in disbelief. His smile became more strained and his eyes were filled with doubt. “Then how come I haven’t heard of it?”

“We thought we could handle zem by ourselves.” Chekov looked down and tried to forget the immense hope that he – that so many of them had.

“Then why are you here?”

Chekov inhaled uneasily. “Russia eez gone.” He picked up the glass and took another drink. “We lost Moscow today. St. Petersburg was calling in for assistance; they’re probably gone too. I’m zee only one left to tell you zis.”

“Well, how did it happen?”

Chekov shifted in his seat as he recalled the story he was told as a child. “Around fourteen years ago, our scientists were developing stem cell research zat could save brain-dead patients. After they ‘jumpstarted’ zee test corpse wiff neurotoxins,” he swallowed and focused his gaze back on Admiral Marcus, “Ze corpse turned on zem and infected zem with the neurotoxin and stem cell mix. The rest eez history.”

Marcus raised an eye at the Russian second lieutenant. “We received a formula like that from the Russian science committee fourteen years ago. We’ve never actually tested it here.” Chekov leapt from his seat. “ _Whatever you do, don’t use eet!_ ”

The man placed his hand over his mouth for a moment. He then narrowed his eyes at Chekov. “Kid, how old are you?”

_Shit. It always comes to this_. Chekov gritted his teeth. “Sewenteen.” _Now he’ll never take me seriously._

“I didn't know that the Russian military enlisted this early.”

“We’re automatically enlisted when we’re around eighteen years old, sir.”

The Admiral inspected his fingernails. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? For all I know, you might just be an illusion sent by the Russians. They have never been on very good terms with us, you know. How do I know if they made a successful formula fourteen years ago and don’t want to share it now?” Chekov pleaded with him. “Please, sir, you _haff_ to beliewe me!”

“Listen up kiddo, I don’t _have_ to believe anyone.” Admiral Marcus flashed Chekov a steely glare. Chekov straightened his uniform and sat back down. “If you don’t beliewe me, why don’t you send some people to surwey Russia, sir? Or are you not going to waste fuel on a petty, worthless werification?”

It was Admiral Marcus’ turn to stand up. He turned towards the door. “Boys, prepare a room for Second Lieutenant Chekov.” He now turned towards a breaking Chekov. “Fourteen years ago, we lost one of our best men in Russia. We don’t want anything to do with whatever the hell is going on in that godforsaken refrigerator of a country. Don’t even think about trying to trick us with an innocent-looking kid like you. In fact, we’re going to use it. If they sent you to distract us from the formula, well, they have underestimated our abilities.”

Chekov was speechless. He expected hostility, but nothing this strong. Was it the mistaken deception? The outlandish story? _It’s the fucking truth_. He felt positively livid and betrayed. _I lost people too. This wasn’t fucking fair._

“Sir, you must follow us into your imprisonment quarters, or we will have to make you.” Chekov looked up at the two American officers who have come to receive him, his grey eyes boiling with anger. “Wery well.”

\----

The room he was led into was spartan, but it wasn’t a jail cell. Chekov realized that he was stuck in some weird form of … house arrest. He was neither bound nor shackled; the door was locked, and there were two guards outside the door. _I need to get out. I can’t let this happen again. I’ve already lost Russia … I can’t have anyone else experience this_. Chekov paced the room for a moment, forming his tactics; then he sat down on the provided bed and reached for the clock on the bed stand.       5:00 PM.

_Soon_ , he thought to himself.

He took off his jacket and shoes, and lay on the bed. He was exhausted. Exhausted from flying more than twelve hours. Exhausted from the Americans. Exhausted from Admiral Marcus. Exhausted from the zombies. Russia.

_Russia_. The very word pained him now. He remembered those endless winters with grey skies when they’d toss snowballs at each other, skate in the frozen lakes, and drink _sbiten_ , hot chocolate, and vodka; he remembered the laughing and singing that happened in between gruesome missions against the zombies. He smiled at recollections of eating the air base cafeteria’s _borscht_ , which was far from good, washing the planes, and playing cards with everyone. He remembered the stupid, vulgar songs that Ibragimov loved to sing, the pungent, tasty smell of _shashlyk_ wafting from the cafeteria, the stuffed noses they suffered in midwinter, and the chamomile daisies that bloomed when it was warmed enough. _And I’ll never experience those things again_.

A wetness stained the pillowcase. Frowning in dismay at his lack of self control, he rubbed his eyes with his hands and flipped the pillow over. _I can’t afford to be sentimental now. I have to remain professional; it’s the only way to get this to work._ Chekov steeled himself and shut off the thinking. _Grieving would be for another time._ He breathed deeply as he curled up and wrapped his arms around his pillow. Tossing around, he attempted to make himself comfortable, but he didn’t feel like sleeping. Chekov stretched an arm across the bed and grabbed the clock. He set an alarm for 9:00 PM. Returning back to his previous position, he forced himself to sleep. _Maybe and somehow won’t make any good._

\----

_  
_ _Beep._

_Beep._

_Be-_  

Chekov turned around and slammed a hand onto the alarm clock. He sat up and stretched himself, and looked around in the dark. Scratching his head, he flicked open the light switch and his room became flooded with yellowish light.

Groaning, he clambered off the bed and straightened his rumpled shirt. He made an attempt to fix his curly mess of brown hair, but gave up taming it. He slid on his jacket and proceeded towards the door.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._ “May I haff your attention for a moment please?” “Yes, what do you need?” The American officer was much nicer to him than the Admiral was. Chekov felt half-sorry about what he was going to do. _Well, I gotta do it._ Feigning embarrassment, Chekov answered: “I’d like to use ze bathroom, but zis room doesn’t seem to be equipped with one.” Chekov heard the door unlocking. “Of course, sir, my apologies. Please follow me.”

The door swung open and Chekov realized that the other American officer was gone. _Good, makes for one less obstacle in my way._ The remaining American officer led Chekov to the men’s room in silence. They entered the public restroom, and Chekov kicked opened a stall. The American decided to wait outside. “I’m not allowed to leave you alone, sir, so I’ll just wait … y’know, outside.” “Zat’s fine by me.” Chekov removed his jacket and hung it on the coat hook as he took a step into the stall.       Suddenly, he turned around and slammed his fist upward at the American’s chin and hit him square in the jaw. As the American slouched over and cradled his jaw, Chekov raised his leg and kneed him in the stomach. The officer doubled over and groaned as Chekov kicked him in the ribs. The American collapsed onto the floor and moaned in pain, and he reached for the radio on his belt. “Sorry, pal.” Chekov apologized as he picked up the doorstop on the floor and brought it down onto the American’s head.

\----  
  
Now with his American guard knocked out cold, Chekov dusted his fingers and slid back into his jacket. He located the bathroom window above a stall. Walking back into the open stall, he clambered onto the toilet seat. He opened the latch to the window and heaved it open. With expertise, he slid his slim body through the window and landed on the other side of the building with a quiet thud.

He grinned like a mischievous child as he became one with the shadows in his dark uniform. Stealthily, he snaked pass patrolling soldiers and made it to the hangar where his plane was parked.

Silently he sneaked up towards his plane, keeping himself concealed in the shadows. He opened the door and took out Irina and some American money he kept there, just in case. _Well, this definitely came in handy_. He closed the door and looked at his plane. _I’m sorry, I can’t take you with me too._ He stroked the plane’s windshield and laid one last kiss on the door. He then slid back into the night.

\----

Chekov was thankful that there were a great many unguarded gates on the establishment. Perhaps they had just discovered the unconscious body of the American officer in the bathroom. _I guess I feel a bit sorry for what I did … he was a nice guy_. Chekov shrugged and slung his AK-47 across his shoulder as he flung himself over a wire fence. _So long_. In a quick trot, he left the air base.

\----  
  
The Los Angeles air was suffocating and warm for Chekov; but he didn’t feel like taking off his uniform.

He counted the money he brought with him. Enough to lodge at a decent hotel. _No_ , he thought to himself. _When the air force comes looking for me, they’re going to scour the hotels, motels, and inns first. I can’t afford the risk._ He shuffled along the sidewalk, scanning the landscape for neighborhoods. _I’m just going to have to go ahead and knock on doors_.

Turning down the street, Chekov decided to try out a neighborhood of condos. He stepped up the cement stairs to the front door of a red brick building. Seemed like a normal-enough American condo. It didn’t look like somewhere the Air Force would look. _Well, I’m going to take a shot_. He guided his fingers towards the doorbell. Hesitating for a moment, Chekov’s slender fingers lingered over the doorbell. A thought flashed through his mind. _There’s a fair chance they’ll call the police._ He shook his head in resignation. _This is the only choice I have._ He pressed the doorbell and hoped for the best.

_Ding dong_. Chekov heard footsteps thundering on the floor as the resident bounded towards the entrance. The wooden door swung open, and an Asian man in his mid-20s stood wearing a sweater and jeans. Spotting a stranger on his doorstep, the Asian man settled on a slightly bewildered expression. He raised an incredulous eyebrow at the curly-haired Russian officer on his doorstep. “Uhh … who are you?”

“Second Lieutenant Pavel Andreievich Chekov from ze Fourth Air-space Defense Brigade in Moscow, sir. I need somewhere to hide. Can I stay here for a while? Please, help me.” The Asian man’s eyebrow rose even higher on his forehead. “Uh … why? What you doing here, um, Mr. Chekov?” Chekov tried to muster some sort of reassuring smile.

“Eet’s … kind of hard to explain.” The man narrowed his eyes at the sight of the AK-47. “Why are you armed?” “Umm … eet’s a long story. Don’t worry about eet … I won’t hurt you.” The Asian man raised his other eyebrow and decided let him in. “Just come in, okay. I don’t want the neighbors to call the police on me with you on the front steps.” “Zank you so much!!” Chekov followed the man through the door. The man turned towards Chekov, hands wildly gesturing. “Okay, I don’t know why I’m doing this, but it just feels like the right thing to do. I’m Hikaru Sulu, by the way. Just call me Hikaru. Are you okay, Mr. Chekov? Why do you need my help?” Chekov gave Sulu a half-bitter half-sheepish smile. “Pavel or Pasha eez fine; no need to call me Mr. Chekov. Um, I don’t know if I’m okay. Russia eez gone, and now ze U.S. Air Force eez after me. Zat’s why I need somewhere to stay.”

Sulu crossed his arms in confusion. “Russia was still there this morning when I checked, so you better tell me what’s happened.” He scanned Chekov and shook his head disapprovingly. “Well, you sure ain’t going to hide from the U.S. Air Force wearing that uniform. You better go take a shower; you look like a mess. I’ll give you some of my clothes; we’re roughly the same size. _Then_ , you have to explain _everything_ to me.”

Sulu ushered Chekov into the bathroom and left him alone. _Why is he helping me?_ Chekov wondered vaguely as he shed his uniform jacket, folded it neatly and set it on the sink. _I suppose he’s asking that question himself, too_. He turned towards the mirror and beheld his own reflection. A haggard, pale face stared back at him. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the dirt on his face accented his hollow cheeks and his angular but slim face. His hands were grimy from his escape. The corkscrew mound of hair upon his head looked more disheveled than ever, and it was discolored from all the dirt he inherited on his escape. _Hikaru’s right … I look like a mess. Actually, I look more like hell_. He raised his slender fingers to his collar and began undoing his shirt buttons. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he turned the shower on and let the water flow. Sliding out of his pants, he held an arm under the water until it was warm enough to step in.

He let the water wash over him and coat him in warmth. His curly hair unwound under the water and plastered itself onto his scalp. Chekov picked up a bar of soap and began to scrub the last vestiges of Russia from his being.

\----

After he was done, he heard a small knock on the door. Sulu had left a towel and some clothes in front of the bathroom. Chekov dried himself and pulled on Sulu’s clothes. The sweatshirt was too big and hung from his shoulders like a poncho; the sleeves went past his fingertips. Sulu’s jeans hung loosely around Chekov’s hips and he kept stepping on the heels. But otherwise, they fit him decently.

He stepped out of the bathroom and headed towards the dining room, where Sulu was waiting with food and drink. “I supposed you were hungry. I don’t have much; but here’s something to eat and a mug of tea.”

Chekov sat down uncertainly, and picked up a cracker. “Where do I start?”

“From the beginning. Tell me everything.”

The young Russian boy stared into his mug. “It’s going to be a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chekov is an ensign in Star Trek, but since Starfleet uses naval ranks and Chekov is an airforce officer in this fic, I've chosen to assign him the equivalent rank of second lieutenant.
> 
> Also, the Russian proverb/saying "Maybe and somehow won't make any good." is roughly equivalent to "Draw not your bow till your arrow is fixed."


End file.
